Goodbye Possibility

I never expect it to rain in November anymore.
No more than I expect to find him anymore.
He was there, once, a possibility of a happier time,
of 'sunshine, daisies, butter mellow'.
Every time I heard an indie track or watched a soppy Bollywood movie.
He was a possibility.
Through all my failures, through all my searches.
Through my mistakes, more times than a few,
Through my (imagined travels) scurrying along cramped lanes,
 heavy with spices amidst whitewashed walls on a tiny island in the Mediterranean Sea,
Through my (imagined travels) on long-leaved fields,
curls blown-astray by the reckless wind and sudden cold rain,
Through (imagined) evenings entwined in each other,
 with ceramic coffee-mugs in yellow and orange
 perched precariously on knobbly knees,
while a multi-coloured quilt covered sockless toes,
He was a possibility.

Now there is nothing.
No circle of light at the end of the tunnel.
Or wait, perhaps....
But no, considering my luck-
it's just another approaching train.